The Happy Place
by IAmAutumnDawn
Summary: The daughter of an abusive man and a battered housewife, Rosalie has grown up in a world where her mother has created an imaginary "Happy Place" for Rosalie to go to whenever her father and brother molest her. But what happens when her "Happy Place" is no longer enough of an escape? (Based upon the author's nightmare...)


Warning: This one shot is based off of a nightmare that I just woke up from. Therefore, it is not light, happy, funny, sexy or loving. It is dark and twisty – violent and angst ridden and deals with the incredibly touchy subjects of domestic and sexual violence and other crimes. It is not the kind of thing I would normally imagine and write, but the horrible dream came to me in such rich detail and so fully complete that I felt I had to write it down – as if to exorcise it from my own mind. If you are terribly disturbed by these things, please don't read.

There is, perhaps, just the very faintest hint at a silver lining…but good luck finding it.

**The Happy Place**

"Leave her alone, or I swear, I will kill you!" I shouted, stepping between my battered mother and the man whose fist was poised in the air, ready for another strike.

"Rosalie, don't." My mother whimpered behind me – her hand a whisper against my arm.

"Oh really?" My father's eyes glinted with the challenge. "See that red box over there?" He gestured to the beat-up metal box by the front door that housed all of his tools. "When you can pick that thing up and haul it around…that's the day you'll be strong enough to kill me, Rosie."

My stomach turned and tears pricked at my eyes.

_Rosie._

It was a nickname – something that should inspire feelings of warmth and closeness and love but in my father's mouth – it was venom. There was nothing but cold hardness and black in his broad, heartless chest. He stood a foot taller than me – his thick arms flexed and menacing - but I squared my shoulders and raised my chin in defiance, doing my best not to show how ineffectual I felt in that very moment.

He loosened his fist, his hand quickly coming to grip my jaw so firmly that it hurt – a fire in his eyes that I recognized and loathed with every fiber of my being.

Despite how quickly and unexpectedly he moved, I hadn't flinched, and I was proud of that.

He grabbed my hand, pressing it against the bulge in his jeans as he brought his face an inch away from mine. "You know how much your little attitude turns me on, don't you?" The rum on his breath washed over my face, making me dizzy.

I scowled, instinctively growling at how thoroughly he disgusted me, but it simply made him respond by using my hand to stroke his length through the denim. "Go ahead and growl, kitten…" the gruff of his cheek scraped against mine painfully as his lips slid around to my ear, "we both know that I'll have you purring in no time."

My father's ability to move lithely and gracefully were perhaps his only redeeming characteristics – or, at least they would be – if he didn't always use them in such shameful ways. Yet, before I knew it, my father had taken my hand from his crotch and twisted my arm, turning me so that I now faced away from him with my arm behind my back, looking into my mother's bloody, beaten, tired, teary face.

"It's okay." I whispered. "I'll be quiet, I swear. You won't hear me. Just close your eyes and go to your happy place." She shook her head, flinging a wayward tear onto my cheek.

My father kicked the back of my knee, and I reacted quickly by stepping forward to stop myself from falling over. One quick glance into my mother's face and I could tell that she wasn't home anymore. The eyes that only seconds ago looked so pained and scared and worried and guilty were now a distant, vacant obsidian stare.

_Good._

My father led me a few steps to the kitchen island and bent me over, adept at getting what he wanted.

When I was little, my mother would comfort me after my father was done with me and tell me about a beautiful place. We would envision ourselves on a blanket amidst soft, lush grass surrounding a pristine lake. Wild flowers bloomed all around us and beyond them, dense forest filled with the sounds of birds and the breeze. In the distance, we would watch the sun set behind purple hued mountains, and the sky above us would be infused with pink and orange clouds before the stars would emerge. In my mind, we fell asleep on those nights counting the stars…

My mom was so weak…so terrified of my father, that it never occurred to her that there was any method of escaping or fighting back, so that was the very best she had to give me.

"When he comes for you, go to our happy place, and I'll meet you there."

My father never hit me. He said I was far too beautiful for that. Only my mother was his punching bag. Instead, my bruises came from the multitude of violent ways my father fucked me, or held me down, or pulled my hair.

At first, I hadn't fought…I just screamed in pain and cried.

Then there was a time when I kicked and bit and scratched and did everything in my power to get him off me. It took years before I realized that only made him last longer…_he loved it._ That was when he started talking dirty to me, trying to rile me up, looking for a fight.

Since then, I just shut up and take it. He became more violent at first, trying to stir up a reaction from me.

The only tender moments we ever had were in the first years that I learned to just silently endure it. When he realized I wouldn't fight him anymore, he had _actually_ tried to somehow get me in the mood. Buying me nice things. Stroking my hair or making subtle little advances. It was almost as if he was actually trying foreplay…

He told me one day, as he was being surprisingly gentle, that he missed his lover.

I threw up on him, the contents of my entire stomach covering my breasts and bed. He didn't even pause.

That was the last time he tried being gentle. When he was done, he beat my mother some more and then made her clean me and my bed up.

In those odd years of anger and sadness, my father cracked through the façade of the beautiful, serene lake my mother had created for me. It was simply impossible for anything bright, happy and optimistic to take residence within my brain.

I never told my mother that, though. Sometimes, I think she needed that lake and those mountains and trees more than I ever did.

Instead, I created a new happy place.

I remember, when I was really little, before my father ever touched me, that I had a little record player. It had records I could play that would read my favorite stories to me while I followed along in a book. They were Disney books and whenever I heard Tinkerbell's sweet little chime, it meant it was time to turn the page.

The jingling of my father's belt buckle did that for me now. The clanging of that metal told me it was time to "turn the page" and sent my consciousness packing.

When the lake no longer existed for me, my mind went blank and just wallowed in the empty blackness. Floating; as if closing your eyes, holding your breath and just drifting in a pool. When the belt came loose and the buckle began clanging with his thrusts, I sunk within my emptiness.

One day, the walls of my blackness caught on fire. Another time, I heard the sounds of tortured screaming.

The darkness grew and changed over the years.

Now, while my father fucks me…I plot their murder.

I enjoy it because I become so lost in the details of it all…the pain, misery and blood…that I don't return from the darkness until long after they are through with me.

For the past three months, I've focused much more on the loathing of my father – with my brother serving another brief sentence for disorderly conduct and assault, I've almost experienced just the slightest hint of peace.

But all of that ends tonight, when he once again returns home.

There is a part of me – a distant part – that feels sorry for Alec and recognizes that he is just as abused and tortured in this household as I am. Our experiences have turned us into the people that we are today.

But that doesn't stop the much, much larger part of me for hating him with a passion. He's three years older. He's stronger than me. He _could_ have been different. He _could_ have fought back against my dad. He _could_ have defended me and my mother.

But he didn't.

I'll say this for my brother, he loves my mom. Although he's never stood up to my dad, he's never mistreated mom. And, I'm thankful that he was able to take care of cleaning my mom up on many of the nights while I was preoccupied with my father. (Nothing seemed to turn him on more than a good beating. If mom was bloody, chances are that I would be, too.)

As for me…my brother's disdain is a tangible thing. I guess he blames me for stealing so much of my dad's time and attention or something. Again…in a logical, rational way, I can see how very desperate my brother was for a father figure to love and approve of him. Sadly, the only father figure he had was not the best role model.

My brother was twelve years old the first time my father brought him into my room to teach him about women. There was about a year when my father would bring my brother in to watch and learn. Alec shrank away, standing stoically in the corner – not talking or responding. He wasn't ruined by then, he was just a scared kid like I was, and his mind was probably torn between not wanting to see what was happening in my room and wanting to be outside, worrying about my mom.

When my father noticed my brother's reluctance, he began forcing me to do things to "help him enjoy it." At nine, I was already much more experienced and, despite everything, my brother was a hormonal preteen and therefore physically reacted accordingly.

The first time my father watched my brother orgasm, they celebrated by getting drunk. It was a week before my brother's thirteenth birthday.

It wasn't until three years later - when _I_ was thirteen - that my brother beat me for the first time – making sure to leave the marks where my father wouldn't immediately notice. He _never_ touched my "pretty face".

It had been a long night – my brother was sixteen and seriously considering driving my mother to the hospital while my father had his way with me. Of course, he decided not to because he was chicken shit and didn't want to risk Dad getting mad.

I was lying in bed later that night, shivering and sore, when my door creaked open and my brother slipped in.

He closed the door behind him and in the darkness and slivers of moonlight, I could just make out the way he leaned back against the doorframe, watching me. I was naked, uncovered, and I couldn't care less. There was nothing left of my pride or self respect to protect.

Although he never made eye contact while he did it, there had been times when Alec would slip into my room, quickly screw me and then leave, as if needing the release but hating himself and me for it at the same time.

Maybe that was his way of showing love? We didn't really have hugs and kisses in my household, so perhaps that was just all he knew at the time.

Anyway, he just stood there…staring at me silently…for what felt like an eternity. Then, he slowly walked over to my bed and sat down beside my hip.

"It's your fault." He whispered, looking down at his hands.

"What?" I asked, my breath a gasp.

"You know he wants you. You know he likes a fight. Just give it to him." He answered.

"I don't understand…" I rasped, finding it difficult to swallow.

Isn't that what I had been doing? Just giving into him? Giving into them both?

He turned to look at me then, leaning forward so that his face was about a foot from mine, and the moonlight caught in his eyes. I choked as I saw my father in him for the very first time. The anger. The hatred. The emptiness and cold.

He pinched the skin on my stomach and twisted at the same time. I began to yelp in pain when his other hand clamped over my mouth.

"You think that hurts?" He asked, his voice pure venom. "How about this?!" He scraped his nails down my side, five jagged lines of fiery pain following the movement.

"Mom's been throwing up blood, Rosalie." He punched my cunt and as I tried to gasp in pain, I suffocated by how tightly his hand was wrapped around my mouth. "Throwing. Up. Blood." Each word was highlighted by some other kind of brief torture. He inventoried my mother's injuries, making sure that I paid in some small way for each and every one of them.

"It doesn't have to be like this. You can take it. _You can take it all_. He doesn't have to touch her. Just give him what he wants before he wants it. Keep him satisfied and happy and it doesn't have to be like this for all of us."

I've lost count of the drunken nights, the inappropriate touches, the beatings, the torture…the misery that is endured in our house on an endless loop day after day and night after night.

When he's sober, my brother beats me…when he's drunk, he fucks me till he's sober and then beats me again.

Twice now, I've been given a respite when my brother's drunkenness has landed him in jail. I'm still drowning, but it enables me to just get that one quick breath of fresh air before I go back under again.

"I'm going to pick up Alec. Clean your mother up. I'll be back." My father demanded, snapping me out of my thoughts, tucking his flaccid cock away and buckling up.

I sigh, grateful to have once again gotten wrapped up in my head long enough to have missed the main event.

As the front door slams closed, I peer around the room and find my mother huddled in a corner, hugging herself, her eyes glassy and distant. We do the dance we've choreographed over years of steady rehearsal – I get her to her feet and guide her towards her bedroom, accidentally kicking over the newest bottle of rum that my father had just opened before he began pummeling her.

But this time, as we make our way to her bathroom where I undress her and prepare to clean her up, my mind races back to my fiery, dark happy place – driven by alcohol fumes and the smell of blood.

~O~

My father and brother don't return home for a couple of hours, after stopping by the bar as expected.

As anticipated, their eyebrows arch up when they see me.

For the first time, I've decided to take the night into my own hands. I've known what was going to happen when Alec came home. We all did. So, rather than allowing things to just take their natural course, I've grabbed the night by the reins and decided to steer.

My hair is curled and up; my eyes accented with a touch of eye liner. I'm wearing nothing but my father's shirt and a fake smile – bile rising in my throat at the whole act. The kitchen island is brimming with their favorite alcohol; a welcome home party just for them.

Their faces are consumed by lust – both for me and the alcohol – and it is almost impossible to tell father from son.

"Mom?" Alec asks, the subtle hint of concern on his face the only recognizable difference.

"Resting." I answer, knowing that he would be too afraid to disturb her to seek her out. He nods, the ravenous lust consuming the concern, like black oil eating his features and disguising what is left of his humanity.

Amidst the bottles adorning the counter are my father's favorite rum, my brother's usual Hennessey and a bottle of Vodka for me. I've never drank before, so I ventured that one bottle should be enough for the first time and they've always told me that Vodka is for pussies, so I know they aren't going to want any.

We drink and – to an outsider – it might appear that I am just some drunken slut looking for a good time. We all sip directly from our bottles and - although I feel queasy and constantly on the verge of tears – for the first time, I initiate the kisses and the flirty behavior. I even get "feisty", just like I know they like it.

Soon, it is obvious that my father is turned on, but Alec is too far gone to perform. He disappears and, a moment later, I peek into his room to find him passed out on his bed – an open bottle of whiskey by his side, spilling onto his floor.

"He can wait his turn." My father leers, sidling up behind me, slipping his hands beneath the white tee and grabbing my breasts. I turn around and slap him as hard as I can, and his eyes alight with excitement. "I like this side of you, Rosie." He grips my throat, pushing me back against the wall and squeezing my airway. "I've missed my little tiger."

My eyes water and my lips grow cold and tingly as he leans forward and kisses me passionately – the taste of his rum strong on my tongue.

I scratch my nails down his arm, drawing blood, and he thrusts his hips forward, pushing his cock into my stomach. I see stars as he finally pulls away, relinquishing his grip on my throat and fisting my hair painfully. I gasp, clawing at my chest as I struggle to replenish my body's oxygen and scared, for the first time, that I may die before I've finished the night.

"Oh, my Rosie…we're going to have so much fun." He sneers. I knee him in the groin and run, tossing back over my shoulder "You'll have to catch me first."

He doubles over momentarily as I break free and then, a second later, he barks a laugh – loving the sadistic little game.

My breathlessness doesn't get me very far and I'm suddenly trembling as I realize how very rough this is going to get.

Once he regains his composure, he leans into the wall for leverage to take off after me. I can hear the drywall cave slightly under his weight and silently congratulate myself for that in my head.

He tackles me in the living room just as I'm beginning to catch my breath, and the weight of his bulk on top of me squishes all of it right back out. He rips open the shirt, his nails breaking my skin in the process as I yelp.

A strange desire flickers on his face as he bends down and licks the fresh cuts, dabbing at his mouth with a shred from the t-shirt. It was a good thing he couldn't see me in that moment, or the absolute terror and shock on my face might have given me away.

"You taste so good, Rosie…" He teases with a leer. I reach up and grab his hair, pulling it until I can feel a couple of strands break at the root. He winces and then lights up. "I always knew you liked it dirty, just like your Daddy. You're gonna love this, baby girl."

I hear his belt buckle and my mind races for the dark, blazing emptiness, but I fight it back…blink it away. I want to be in this moment. I want to fight back. I want to leave him scratched and bruised and bloodied. I know he'll do the very same to me, but it will be worth it.

And so, as my father takes me, I bite his arms and shoulder. I scratch at his back and kick and struggle for what feels like an eternity, knowing that I'm giving him what he wants but still allowing myself just the slightest bit of joy for landing the blows.

When he is finally done – his lip bloodied, his hair a mess, a bruise forming around his right eye, he stands up, hovering over me, looking down at my used body with sheer satisfaction. "Thanks for that, baby girl. I always knew you had it in you." With his belt dangling and his cock, wet and flaccid, still hanging out from his pants, he grabs a fresh bottle of rum from the counter, saunters over to his recliner and turns on the television.

I lay on the floor for a moment, too tired and sore to move, until the sounds of the football game lull me into unconsciousness. I'm not sure exactly how long I sleep, but the game was over when I woke back up and my father was passed out in his chair, as usual.

I peel myself from the floor, removing the tattered shirt from my shoulders and dropping it onto the carpet. I allowed myself a moment to look around…

_So many stains…_

Mom and I always cleaned, but any forensics team worth its wealth could read our family history in these stains. Spit…blood…semen…if they used one of those black light things you see on the television shows, our entire house would look radioactive.

I walked naked through the house to my bedroom and put on the clothes I had worn earlier in the day. I meandered into my bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Something was dead in my expression. Dead and dying. I spent some time mourning it – whatever it was – before splashing some water on my face and taking a deep breath.

"You lied to me." I closed my eyes, trying to center myself, as my brother slipped into the bathroom behind me, the door banging to help announce his presence. "Where the fuck is mom?"

I looked at him through our reflection in the mirror. "I drove her to the hospital while dad was picking you up."

His eyes grew wide, and then shifted into tiny, angry slits. I turned, leaning back against the sink with my hands up in front of me, pleading. "You're right. It's my fault. It's all my fault and it's always been my fault. I'm sorry - I was too young; too weak. That's why I'm doing this now. I'm trying to make it all better." My confession caught him off guard, making his drunken brain work too hard to understand. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if that would somehow shake all the pieces into place. "I don't want to talk here – Dad could wake up and hear. Let's go to your room." I placed my hands on his chest, trying to keep him calm. He nodded lazily before stepping out of the bathroom.

I took one second longer to look into the mirror, drawing in a long, deep, cleansing breath and saying goodbye to the girl I used to be before following him into his bedroom.

We shut the door behind us and I glanced around, noting that in the time I had been passed out, he had managed to finish off the rest of the Hennessey – empty bottles littering the room with obvious spillage on his sheets and floor.

We sat down on the edge of the bed and I attempted to talk to my brother – to reason with him – for the first time in my life. "I'm going to beat him, Alec. I'm finishing this. We'll be free-"

"What are you talking about, Rose?" He asked, his blinks slow and deliberate.

"It's like you told me – I'm the only one who can do this. I'm the only one who can save us. It doesn't have to be like this anymore; you don't have to be like him. Can you sober up? I need your help – I need you to take care of mom and-"

"It's too late." He slurred.

"What?"

"I did it. Just like him. She was so pretty Rosie…sitting in the bar with those tight pants, and I wanted her so bad…" He drifted off, struggling to organize his thoughts into a complete sentence.

"What did you do?" I asked, tears for this unknown women pooling in my eyes.

"I wanted her…" He slurred, as if that was all the explanation I needed. "I had her. S'why her boyfriend kicked my ass…"

What was he saying? Was he a rapist? A woman beater?!

"I'm just like him, Rosie. Just like Dad." There was a sorrow to his voice, but he shook the thoughts and the feelings clear and when he looked at me again, there was the void and the hunger and the coldness that reminded me of my father. "I've missed you, Rosie." He slipped his hand over mine, guiding it down his thigh to his cock. "See how much I've missed you." He leaned over, his breath on my cheek. "Make it stop hurting, Rose. Make everything stop hurting."

The tears brimmed over as I realized it was too late for me to save him. I hadn't really felt responsible. I hadn't really felt guilty. I had only been saying what I felt I needed to in order to reach out to my brother and snap him back to reality, but I realized now that he was a lost cause.

This time, as he removed my clothes, he was gentle and – in a sick and twisted way – there was love there. I cried silently, the tears streaming down my cheeks and collecting in my ears and, as when I was little – he didn't look me in the face as he satisfied his body's need. He came apart and then lay down on top of me – absorbing the nearness – until the shallowness of his breath alerted me that he was asleep.

I rolled him off of me and walked, haggard, into the living room where my father continued to lounge peacefully in his recliner, and thought about all the ways he had destroyed us all. Who was he, really? I mean, outside of these walls…outside of the repair shop where he worked as a mechanic…outside of the bar where they knew him by name…who was he? Where had he come from? Had he been born this way, or had he grown up in circumstances that shattered his happy place like he has shattered mine? Outside of the hell we lived in, I knew so little about my family – couldn't even begin to explain how everything came to be. I knew that parents had moved to the little town of Forks shortly after getting married, but aside from that, my grandparents and extended relatives were complete unknowns to me.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine the man in the chair had been a good little boy. I allowed myself to imagine that he had picked flowers for his mother and learned mechanics from helping his father. I allowed myself to imagine him to be a man that my mother could fall in love with. And, for a moment, I took pity on the wholesome, happy, loving image I created and instead, focused my anger on whatever unknown entity would allow such misery to exist.

I channeled the years of anger, pain, fear and sadness into a burning inferno in the pit of my stomach and marched over to the front door. I bent my knees, placed my hands on either side of the red box, and hefted it up – my muscles trembling with exertion – and slowly…methodically…carried the damn thing to the side of my father's recliner. My arms shook, my shoulders ached, but the fire in my stomach boiled over, giving me the strength I needed to painstakingly hoist the box over my head. The contents inside of it shifted as I began to lose my grip; wrenches and nuts and bolts rattling loudly and clanging against the inside of the box as it tilted forward – my elbows locking in place as I tried to steady it. My father snorted, the commotion waking him up and his eyes going as wide as saucers as I let go…

~O~

I knocked on the door, shivering against the wind that howled through the trees. Dr. Carlisle Cullen and his wife Esme were a kind couple and – living a mile down the road – were our very nearest neighbors. It was nearing midnight and I hated to disturb them…hated getting them involved…

"Oh my God, Rosalie! What happened to you, sweetie?" Esme asked, pulling her robe tighter around her as she stepped out onto their porch and rubbed my arm reassuringly.

I had disrobed, leaving my soiled clothes at the foot of my brother's bed before bundling up against the Fork's winter weather – but my face still bore the scratches, bruises and scabs of my father's "loving".

"Please, come inside – we'll call the police and Carlisle will take care of that – " she rambled worriedly, attempting to usher me into the house. I shrank back.

"Thank you, Esme…I'm so sorry to worry you but…I can't stay. I'm just a little worried about Alec. He was drinking and passed out-" I began to ask, the information coming out in short little bursts.

"Of course, I'll go check on him." Carlisle answered from behind Esme. "But, you need to be seen too. Why don't you let Esme drive you to the hospital while I go check on Alec-"

"Really, it's okay. I have my mom's car. I'll drive myself there now. But Alec-" I stammered.

"I'll take care of Alec." Carlisle stated abruptly. "That's sweet of you to worry about him. Let me get dressed and then I'll head over and take a look, okay?" He asked, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly. My stomach sunk as the guilt set in.

Esme wrapped a tiny arm around my waist. "Meanwhile, I insist you come inside and wait. I'll get dressed too and we can ride to the hospital together. It's icy out and you're in no condition to be driving." She said, patting my cheek in a motherly gesture.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you both very, very much – I can't thank you both enough. You're wonderful people." I said, hoping that they would listen and remember my words as I began to tear up.

"And you're wonderful too." Esme smiled, pulling me into the foyer and shutting the door.

They instructed for me to make myself at home while they got dressed and then disappeared to their second floor bedroom.

The moment they were out of sight, I slipped back outside, hopped into my father's beat up red truck, and took off onto the dark, slick roads.

On Dr. Cullen's windshield, I left an envelope inscribed with the words "Please give this to my mother." He was the only one I felt I could trust to deliver my handwritten words of love, apology and well wishes if she were to ever wake back up. As of this afternoon, when I dropped her off in the ER, they feared she may have an aneurism, but I hadn't stayed around to confirm the details.

Dr. Cullen would arrive at my house to find that it was far too late for my father. Although the jangling of the tools disguised the sound of any bones breaking, I could only imagine his ribs snapping under the force and piercing many internal organs. I had stared into my father's eyes, watching methodically, until the dark, cold, anger I had always seen in them diminished to nothingness.

I hoped that covering him with the sheet would help to ease some of the shock the good Dr. might experience.

My brother was most assuredly experiencing the affects of alcohol poisoning – that by his own doing. I expected him to sleep through it while I wrapped the twine around the base of his balls – alcohol is a powerful thing – but I had assumed he would wake up, screaming as the serrated knife separated them from his body. When his breathing remained incredibly slow and steady, I began to expect that he wasn't merely "passed out drunk". I had tied the twine tightly enough that the bleeding appeared to be minimal, but I was no surgeon, and the hack job was sure to do exactly what I wanted it to do. I could only hope I would leave Dr. Cullen with enough time to save his life.

Once I felt confident that my brother was impotent and infertile, I disrobed, leaving the clothes stained with their semen and blood in a pile at the foot of his bed.

I cleared the kitchen counter once more so that the police would be sure to find what I would leave there for them. Beside the ziplock bag containing what remained of my brother's testicles, was my typed confession. I had saved it on my computer in case I would need to change any of the details but, luckily, after dropping my mom off in the ER, the entire night had gone exactly as I had planned. In my letter, I explained the abuse I had sustained over the years and accounted for the broken bones and collateral damage they would discover while examining my mother. I recalled the different scenes that had taken place in my home throughout my life, hoping they would use the evidence throughout the house to verify my story. I admitted that I acted alone – having given my mother a perfect alibi by having her admitted to the hospital before it all happened.

There was only one thing I did to mislead the police.

I hid any evidence that I had planned it.

With the blueprints to the crime locked solely in my head all these years, there was only one remaining piece of that puzzle to take care of.

I emptied the vodka bottle of its contents for the second time that day – the first being when I poured the alcohol down the toilet upon getting home and the second being when I flushed the remaining water I had used to refill it. Although I had considered the benefits of being drunk while bedding my father and brother, the benefits of being clearheaded were far more important. It was only important that they _believe_ I was drunk, so that they wouldn't question my behavior.

With the evidence heavily weighted in my favor and a signed confession waiting, I headed out in the darkness, finally grateful for the small, rural town that I lived in. By the time the crime was reported, the police could respond and any search for me would begin, I would be too far away for their tiny police force to find.

By daybreak, I would be aboard a ferry towards Canada…looking for my new happy place.


End file.
